


Cliché

by holyfant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-27
Updated: 2011-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a cliché and therefore - true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cliché

The magic of midnight is almost a cliché, and therefore – almost true. Nothing more and nothing less than true, even if the truth will change in the moments to come (truth itself almost a cliché). A tiredness hangs over the lake on this moment, as the day balances on the edge, doubles back on itself, reaches back for its own beginnings and goes to sleep. Everything is possible at midnight because things might start or they might end and right now, they might do both. The silence of the night is almost eerie. The water holds its breath as the day sighs to a lengthy close, approaching its own border, not knowing how to cross.

For Lavender, the oldness of today is already full of the freshness of tomorrow. Love on the banks of the lake is as much a cliché as midnight, and therefore – true. True love, at least in this moment, and what happens next they will have to see.

But right now? The air is breathless, and what surrounds them – the water lapping on the shores, the stirs of unseen creatures, blades of grass – is full of waiting. She is full of waiting, too, bursting of it. She is blushing with the energy of it, she can tell, because Parvati's thigh underneath her cheek is cool, and between them a slight barrier of sweat is drying. It's like their skins are mingling, and it's okay – they will separate again if needed, but now they are of the same body; Parvati darker than she even under the blue whiteness of the moon. Of the same essence.

Parvati shifts and the hem of her skirt rides up, exposing more of Lavender's cheek to the shock of her skin. With a small sigh, like the day growing older every second, Parvati lightly places her hand on Lavender's forehead – a small hand with damp fingers that Lavender's curls stick to. She moves her hand like a tentative ghost, a breeze.

It is midnight and the lake glitters, releasing a breath held too long. The moon is bright. The wind picks up. Time picks up.

“It's tomorrow,” Parvati whispers. Lavender can tell she's got her eyes closed.

Bolder, growing stronger with the moon, Lavender takes a decision and mirrors the ghost of Parvati's hand with the stronger touch of her own hand on the thigh beneath her head. With the energy of a new day she squeezes the flesh there, feels the muscles flutter and jump to attention. Parvati's fingers find their strength in response and tangle themselves in her hair. Lavender can feel Parvati's skin heating up to match the warmth of her face. A small fire is being lit between her legs and she marvels at that one small touch, that slight pull at her hair that has this effect. They can no longer pretend this is innocent now. Not in this new energy of a midnight past, a new beginning.

“Yes, it is,” she sighs, pressing her head firmly against the thigh, feeling it quiver.

When she sits up, faces Parvati – skin caramel washed a dark brown-blue under the moon, eyes half closed – she thinks, nothing could be more cliché than this; but therefore nothing could be more true than this, and when they kiss, grasping at each other, reaching into each other awkwardly - more a kiss of noses bumping and hands pulling than of mouths but it's okay it's okay because they find each other and their sighs into each other's mouth are more perfect than any kiss could have been – when they kiss on the shore of the lake at midnight, the point where the new day throws itself into time, she feels like she herself, like this moment, is full of beginnings, endings, and both, and endless possibilities sorting themselves out in the space between their lips.

Bursting at the seams.


End file.
